That Bad Messy Girl

God damn, I am messy. I mean, really, seriously messy. I don’t think you have ever known anyone as messy as I am. I just distribute the atoms of my life in packages, parcels and piles all over and around any environment I enter. I have at least six wardrobes; one in the car, one in the hallway, one draped over the banisters, one in the bathroom and at least two on my bedroom floor. Oh the actual wardrobe? Well that’s reserved for glitzy show costumes from when I was six years old. Obviously.

I just can’t help it. I think it’s one part laziness, one part genetics and one part self-destructiveness. Maybe subconscious fear has a part to play too - like, I can never fall too hard if I have all this stuff around me to cushion the impact. I do love mess a little bit, though. I remember watching Lost In Translation and going all gooey over the artful abomination that is Charlotte’s (Scarlett Johansson) hotel room. So much more life-embracing and comfy than the clean (puke) lines the room is designed with. I don’t mind clean and tidy rooms; I LOVE messing them up, though. Just not thinking and strewing stuff everywhere - it’s my stock in trade. Everywhere I go I leave a little trail of make-up products, cocktail rings, restaurant receipts, blue nail varnishes, old novels, new mags, broken pens, half-filled notebooks, disposable cameras, partly empty coffee pots, totally empty wine glasses, screwed-up cake wrappers, undone leather belts…

My messiness does totally screw me over, though. I can’t find things, I tread on (and break) things (then get glass in foot), I constantly (and I mean constantly) feel I should be tidying up and I do think that if my house was impeccably tidy, my life would be perfect. Of course, it wouldn’t be. But it might exist in a better looking frame.